Lost Ones

by Nicole French

  Quinn’s eyes practically roll up to the ceiling. “You’ve been moping around this apartment for the last four months like friggin’ Charlie Brown. Did you even pass your classes this semester, Lay?”

  “I did just fine in my classes, thanks.”

  And it’s true. I did. I couldn’t sleepwalk through those like I have everything else the last three weeks. Learning about Latin American politics hasn’t been easy, considering everything about it reminds me of the two men in my life who tore it apart in quick succession, one, two, three. But in its own way, it was kind of cathartic. At least it makes me feel something.

  “Lay, you have been a little…” Shama starts uneasily.

  “A little what?”

  “Glum?” Jamie suggests while toying with the bedspread.

  “I was going to say suicidal,” Quinn remarks.

  I turn back to her. “That’s not even funny.”

  “Please. You’re about five minutes from slitting your wrists.”

  “Quinn!”

  Quinn looks sheepishly at Shama, whose older brother actually did attempt suicide a few years ago. He wasn’t successful, but it’s not even close to a funny joke, especially in this circumstance.

  “Sorry, Shams,” she says.

  “Super heartfelt,” I mumble as I turn back to my desk to finish writing the letter for my dad for Christmas. I can feel, rather than see, my roommates glancing at each other.

  “Right,” Quinn spits. “Because you’re one to give practice lessons on empathy. Do you even know what’s been going on in Shama’s life recently? Did you know that Jason cheated on her?”

  “Hey!” Shama pipes up again. “We do not know that Jason’s been cheating! I just told you that he’s been a little weird lately.”

  “Whatever.” Quinn waves away her complaints. “He’s a dick, and you’re finally seeing it. He blew you off again the other night. The writing’s on the wall, babe.”

  “God, do you always have to be so fucking insensitive?” I shove my papers to the side and get up, grabbing my coat off the back of my chair and shoving my arms into it violently. “You’re always like this, you know? Always thinking the worst about anyone the rest of us date. You just have to call Nico ‘Special Delivery,’ insult him just because he’s trying to figure out his life. And just because Jason had a bad night, you think he must be cheating on Shama. How about Jamie’s boyfriend? Is Dev secretly gay or something?”

  “I’m just looking out for you,” Quinn counters.

  “No, you’re nagging us.” I tie my scarf around my throat so tightly it almost chokes. “If I wanted the third fucking degree, I’d fly to Brazil to have my father give me one the right way.”

  “That’s hilarious. If you were like this all summer, I’m not surprised your dad barely wants to speak to you these days. Isn’t that why you’re staying here over Christmas?”

  “Quinn,” Jamie chides quietly. “You didn’t have to go there.”

  I stand still, though my body shakes with anger. Only a week ago, I finally heard from my dad––a terse, scratchy call that informed me he wouldn’t be traveling to the States for Christmas. My mom seemed happy enough when I told her I’d be staying here––she had wanted to go to a retreat with friends in Arizona anyway. Even though I hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas at my grandparents’ cold house in Pasadena, the fact that neither of my parents wanted to spend the holidays with me at all hurts. And Quinn knows it.

  But she doesn’t apologize, just folds her arms stubbornly. Without another word, I walk out, ignoring the weak pleas from Jamie and Shama to stay.

  “There she goes,” calls Quinn.

  The front door slams behind me before I can even think about answering.

  I walk around Union Square for a while, aimlessly window-shopping on Broadway while I try to stay warm. My gloves and hat are still at the dorm, sitting on my desk, on top of papers full of comments like “Intelligent, but needs passion” or “Adequate; you can do more.” I wasn’t lying. My grades are fine. I’ll probably finish the semester with an A-average, just a slight dip from the near-4.0 I carried over the last two years. The change would have been enough to earn my father’s ire a year ago––he would have been calling me at 4:00 a.m. every morning after midterms to make sure I was studying extra. But considering how interested he’s been in my life these days, I doubt he’ll notice anything at all.

  Still, Quinn’s right about one thing, as much as I hate to admit it. I’ve been going through the motions for most of the semester, and definitely for the last three weeks. She’s right about my mood. She’s right that I’ve been in a funk. And if I’m being honest, she’s probably right about Jason and Shama too. I just really, really don’t want her to be. And most of all, I just want her to leave me alone.

  I want everyone to leave me the hell alone.

  But they don’t––not in real life, and not in my mind either. Nico, of course, is everywhere I go, his memory embedded into the concrete slabs and lampposts of the city. I don’t need Quinn to tell me that I’m still pining for him. I miss him like crazy. I tried to let go, but we still text back and forth here and there, even send each other a few pictures. There’s one photo that someone took of him on the beach. I actually had it printed out, and I keep it in my desk drawer for when I just can’t take it anymore and have to see his face. The edges are already worn and creased.

  Eventually I find myself walking steadily west, zigzagging past the closed stores on Seventh, stopping for tea in Chelsea, and eventually ending up in the same neighborhood where I was only three weeks before. Standing awkwardly on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street, I look up and down the brick walkups, up toward the high-rise buildings that crowd the horizon. At almost five o’clock, the sky is starting to dim, but not enough to see the halo cast by the city against the darkness. I haven’t seen stars in months. You can’t when you’re inside New York’s odd corona.

  I try to imagine what this neighborhood was like when Nico was growing up. A glance down Forty-Ninth tells me that the closer you get to the river, the darker and quieter the streets get. Down at the end of the block, a few buildings have boarded-up windows and some tags sprayed over the brick sides. Past Tenth, it’s practically black. Not a place that, even now, I’d probably want to walk alone.

  Nico grew up in New York during the eighties. I’ve seen pictures. My father used to travel here sometimes; once we even came on vacation as a family in the early nineties. I was only thirteen, but I remember even then the way my dad skirted around certain blocks like the plague. How he wouldn’t take the subway for fear of being mugged. He might have been overprotective. I’ve certainly never felt unsafe here. But looking down Ninth Avenue, I can easily imagine how that shadow might have taken over a lot of the city at certain points in time. How maybe it’s not really ever vanquished, just being held at bay.

  Maybe that’s all Nico will ever be for me too. A shadow I just have to keep at bay.

  My heart aches. Most days I don’t regret anything that happened between us. But there are times, like right now, when I wish to God I could just get rid of all of it so I could stop feeling this way.

  “Layla?”

  I turn around at the familiar voice. “Giancarlo?”

  The tall, lanky form of the Argentinian lopes down Forty-Ninth. It’s been well over a month since I saw him last––a few weeks before Nico arrived, when I was too excited to think of being with anyone else but him. And for the last three, not being able to keep my mind off him.

  “Hello,” Giancarlo says almost formally, unafraid to let his accent out. He uses it like a point of pride.

  I notice then that he’s dressed up in a tie, a collared shirt, and slacks underneath his long black coat. He wears the same square-toed loafers so popular with the European crowds here––I see them at the clubs a lot. His thick black hair is combed back from his face, and his smile, if a bit brusque, screams confidence.

  “It has been a while,” he
pronounces, even as he slides a familiar hand around my back and kisses both of my cheeks. “You are good?”

  “I…yeah. I’m good,” I agree, still slightly stunned to see him. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

  Giancarlo frowns, his deep-set eyes growing a little dark. “Why? Is there a reason you wouldn’t want me to see you here?”

  Suddenly flushed, I shake my head and shove my hands deeper into my pockets. “Um, no. No, I don’t think so,” I say, only just realizing the second “no” makes me sound guilty.

  Giancarlo examines me, and I have to force myself not to look away. I haven’t seen him for a while––I had forgotten just how intense his dark eyes are. Intimidating, and…a little arousing. I shift back and forth on my feet.

  “St. Andrews is the closest Spanish Mass for me,” he says abruptly, finally breaking the awkward silence.

  The well-lit doors of the red-brick building just down the block are open, welcoming Spanish speakers around Hell’s Kitchen for evening Mass, the same church where Nico and his family went while he was growing up. Where Carmen and her kids still go. A priest stands outside, accepting the handshakes and occasional kisses of the parishioners. It’s a Friday night––not a busy night for church––but a steady trickle of people enter the double doors.

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  I look back at Giancarlo, who still hasn’t turned his gaze from me. “What?”

  He shrugs. “You are Catholic, no? Your family is Brazilian.”

  I haven’t been to Mass in months––not since my father left. This time last year, they would have asked if I had started celebrating the Advent. Had been giving confession before Christmas.

  I finger the new gold watch on my wrist, the early Christmas gift from my dad. On the back of the face is an engraving: a minha filha, which means “to my daughter.” Apparently now that he’s living in Brazil again, he’s actually comfortable using Portuguese with me in a way he never would have before.

  “Sure,” I say finally. “Why not?”

  I follow Giancarlo into the church, nodding politely when the priest greets us both in Spanish. I know enough now to answer politely in kind.

  It’s an older building, probably built sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. Sturdy and tall, the inside opens into high, arched ceilings that tower above the T-shape of a traditional basilica. It’s a familiar shape, one that reminds me of St. Anne’s, the big cathedral in Seattle my parents and I attended every Sunday, but which also recalls the smaller churches in Brazil. The ones my dad might be visiting with his family these days.

  I glance around, weirdly hopeful and nervous. But no, I don’t see Nico. There’s no sign of the shoulders I’d know anywhere. And of course not. He wasn’t coming back for Christmas because of all the time he took off at Thanksgiving.

  “You are practicing your Spanish,” Giancarlo observes as we walk down the aisle. With a hand at my back, he steers me into a pew near the middle, a few rows away from the families sitting closer to the altar.

  I nod as I sit down. “My class is immersion-based, five days a week. We’ve been learning really fast. My instructor says I have a pretty good ear.”

  Giancarlo examines me a moment, then proceeds to reel off a succession of quick Spanish, out of which I catch maybe four or five words.

  I blush. “Okay, maybe not that good.”

  He smirks and pushed his glasses up his long nose. “It takes a long time to learn another language unless you are really talented at them. You shouldn’t be hard on yourself. I learned English in a few months once I moved here, but not everyone can do that.”

  I look down at my hands, unsure of how to take his comments. They don’t criticize me directly––obviously, he must know the difference between learning a language in class instead of by living in a native-speaking country.

  “Shhh,” he says.

  I frown. Did I say something?

  But he points a finger toward the front of the church. “It’s starting. I will help you translate.”

  ~

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Layla

  Even spoken in a different language, the ceremony is comforting and familiar. The whiff of incense in the dimly lit space puts me into a sort of trance while the priest intones the opening lines of Mass. I’ve only ever associated Catholicism with my parents and my upbringing––to be honest, I’m not even sure I believe in most of it anymore––but the familiarity is balm to my tired heart. The rhythm of the homily is the same in Spanish as in English, and Giancarlo translates the readings and the sermon to me, his voice low and soothing in my ear. By the time I’ve taken the Eucharist, swallowed my bit of dry bread and the overly sweet wine that every church on the planet blesses, I feel a little more at peace.

  We file out silently ahead of most of the other attendees as the pipe organ plays behind us. It wasn’t a full Mass, only thirty minutes, but it was long enough to cultivate that heavy sense of peace and foreboding I always feel leaving a church. My soul is somehow lighter and heavier, all at the same time.

  “What’s up, NYU?”

  Almost to the exit, I swing around to find Gabriel, Nico’s brother, striding up the aisle, followed by the short, slight figure I recognize as Carmen, his mother.

  Oh. Shit.

  “Hey,” I greet Gabe as he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “Good, good,” he says. We step to the side of the door to let the other parishioners leave. “Just taking Mami to Mass. One of us takes her most days.”

  As if on cue, Carmen joins us, and with a careful, guarded nod, accepts my brief embrace.

  “Hola, Carmen,” I say.

  She nods again, but remains silent, looking suspiciously at Giancarlo, who sort of looms next to us. Gabe is pretty tall, but Giancarlo still has a few inches on him. The two of them make Carmen and me look like dwarves.

  “Oh,” I start. “Sorry. Um, perdón. Eso es mi amigo, Giancarlo. El está de Argentina.” I stumble through the rudimentary phrases I manage to piece together for Carmen, even though I know she understands English perfectly well. It just seems rude to speak in a language she can’t. “Giancarlo, esa es Carmen Soltero y su niño, Gabriel.”

  Gabe snorts at the awkward introduction, and I shoot him a dirty look. He just laughs harder.

  “Encantado,” Carmen murmurs to Giancarlo, who shakes her hand limply.

  Gabe, suddenly serious, also shakes Giancarlo’s hand. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  I frown. From what I know of Gabe, he only speaks that formally when he’s trying to impress. He puffs his chest out a little at Giancarlo, and beside me, the tall man stiffens.

  The three of them trade pleasantries in Spanish for a bit while I try to follow along as best I can (mostly unsuccessfully). Giancarlo remains stiff––everyone does, actually. Carmen keeps squinting at him, like she’s trying to figure something out about him.

  “Okay,” she pronounces awkwardly in English once there’s a lull in the conversation. Then to me: “Nice to see you, Layla.”

  I nod and lean in to give her another kiss on the cheek, which she accepts awkwardly. “Adiós, señora.”

  Gabe snickers at the formal address of his mother, for which he receives a quick smack in the belly from her purse. I roll my eyes, and he laughs. Carmen proceeds to drag her son out of the church.

  “See ya, NYU!” Gabe crows loudly, earning another smack on the way out. “I’ll tell Nico you said hi!”

  I’m smiling when I turn back to Giancarlo, relieved that the interaction wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. But his murderous face flattens my cheer.

  “This boy. He is a lover of yours?” he demands.

  I balk, glancing wildly around the church in case someone heard us. “What? No!”

  Giancarlo grabs my hand and tows me outside. Across the street, Gabe and Carmen enter their building without another look at us. Giancarlo scoffs, then continues steering me toward Nin
th Avenue.

  “Mamarrachos pobres,” he mutters.

  “Poor what?” I ask. I know enough Spanish to figure out the second word, but not the first.

  Giancarlo looks at me with surprise, and if I’m not mistaken, a little embarrassment. It seems to make him angry. “It’s…an expression. In Argentina, we say it to…it refers to people who have no…it is for people who are from the country.”

  I frown. “What does that have to do with Carmen and Gabriel? They’re from New York.”

  “It’s…you can hear from the way they talk,” he says. “No class. They are Puerto Rican, no? None of them speak Spanish the right way.”

  “What does that mean, the ‘right way’?” I ask, getting defensive on the Solteros’ behalves. “My teacher says that Spanish has hundreds of different variations and dialects. It’s a huge, diverse language group, just like English.”

  “Yes, but Puerto Ricans, they don’t speak Spanish,” Giancarlo retorts, clearly annoyed. “They speak a mix. Sometimes Spanish, sometimes English. Like they can’t choose. Even words that sound like Spanish are actually from English.” He wrinkles his long nose, like he’s smelling something bad. “It is, how do you say…sucio.”

  “Dirty?” I translate out loud. “What?”

  “You want to speak a language, speak the language,” Giancarlo says. “Choose. Don’t mix them, like dishwater.”

  He turns abruptly and guides me into a tapas bar on the corner.

  “Una mesa por dos,” he rattles to the hostess, and then gets annoyed when the poor girl doesn’t speak Spanish.

  “Just the two of us, please,” I tell her.

  She seats us at a small table near the back of the dimly lit restaurant, and I sit back into the plush bench seat while Giancarlo folds his long legs under the table.

  “Are you…are you always so abrupt with people?” I ask him after he’s settled in.

  He blinks at me through his glasses. “How do you mean?”

  I shrug, trying not to look away from his piercing gaze. “I mean…it’s not her fault that she doesn’t speak Spanish. You were kind of rude.”